Alike
by Roserik
Summary: Arthur didn't like to show himself weak in the eyes of the others, especially in Alfred's, after American Revolutionary War. After the same historical event, you could've said that Alfred wasn't going to appear too attached to Arthur. But America decided to go at England's house to start fixing things up. Without expose himself too much, of course. But... (Slight UsUk or bromance.)


**Please note**:** this is a translation of the fanfic "Alike" I wrote and published here: efpfanfic ****(dotnet) /**** viewstory. php?sid=2991551&i=1 (delete the blank spaces and replace (dotnet) with .net in order to get the link). Besides, you can call it a song-fic. According to this site, there are no problems IF the musical lyrics are in the public domain; I think Greensleeves is. I hope you enjoy.  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. **

**Warning: some coarse language here and there. **

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><p>He was nervous. He wouldn't have confessed it to anybody, but he was damned nervous. And he felt that way because he was afraid. Afraid to harm what was left between them, to hurt him, or <em>to be refused by him<em>.

Fear was growing with his heartbeat as he explored the garden. His hands were sweating. He should have calmed down. He didn't have to be anxious, he couldn't, _he had no right to_: he had had a fight for days with his boss to persuade him to let him leave, hold contacts with the English, with Arthur. Besides, he was a hero — and everyone knows that heroes face things with bravery. Or at least this was what Alfred thought.

He had the right to be anxious, actually: he could be that way, and it was quite normal for him to feel that way since he was very fond of Arthur. Maybe that was precisely the problem: after the American Revolutionary War, he feared showing himself too weak, too attached to him, who had grown him as a son and as a little brother.

They were on the same level. And this was what he wanted: to stand on his own two feet and not to feel inferior.

He spotted the Brit's outline from afar, his blonde head sunk between his shoulders, his back unusually curved — as though it was bent because of sorrow, the American would have said. He felt his guilt growing inside, just like that time on the battlefield when Arthur, crying, cringed at his feet. But he clenched his fists and shook his head, as though he wanted to get rid of that feeling, and slowly kept on getting closer to Arthur, who meanwhile had turned his back.

He noticed that the man in front of him — because Alfred first saw him as a man and then as a nation — was slightly shaking and... Talking? Not to him, probably: the words were whispered and nearly inaudible. His curiosity, the reason why he remembered neither his new fear nor his guilt, lead him to eavesdrop on him to try to understand, but he only found out that the relationship between them and the one between _Greensleeves'_ author and the lady of the same name had similarities.

He was thinking about moving forward towards him a little more when he saw his shape changing: Arthur was the same — the same suffering young man, this time with his face looking towards the sky — but he was somehow different _inside_.

"_Alas, my love, you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously_". This time the words, with the melody and Arthur's voice, reached his ears clearly, and thence they immediately made their way to deepest part of his being, the one in which he guarded his feelings and his memories. The images and the flashbacks started to rush in his mind all at once, almost as if that music was calling them back. His instinct told him that both of them would remember the same things until one sang and the other listened to.

The newly-ended American Revolutionary War and their last encounter on the battlefield occurred to him. He partially understood the reasons why Arthur did what he did. The Brit had been his guardian for a long time: it was obvious that he was way too much apprehensive and didn't want him to get hurt, although the American knew he would never admit it. But Alfred had grown up a lot and had the right to make his own choices.

He feared that Arthur thought Alfred had done it to burn his bridge with him; on the contrary, he hoped that Arthur could see him on his same level, didn't treat him like a child and let him share in his problems. But he too wouldn't have admitted it, not even if he was under torture. Or at least this is what he thought, but life is a long way to walk through — especially for the nations.

"_And I have loved you, oh, so long delighting in your company_". This time Arthur's voice seemed more melancholy, as though it was bent by the pain of bringing back to mind happy memories. Indeed, the images of the times in which the Brit went to America to visit him, of the handmade toy soldiers the Englishman had given to him when he was a kid, of their laughs, of the times in which he took shelter in his ex-guardian's bed due to fear or loneliness, of Arthur's objections and following accepting his presence, of the rare warm smiles which lighted the Brit's face in spite of his fatigue and the thousands of worries crowding his mind, of his kind and his gentle hand getting closer to him and ruffling his hair when he was sad, and of the goodnight kisses on his forehead found their way to his mind.

Alfred didn't even realise that he was holding his breath, that he didn't move a single muscle for fear that everything stopped, that he was leaning forward Arthur to let slip neither a single note nor an inflection of that unusually meaningful voice which enchanted him, that he had goose bumps because of the emotion-shower running over his whole being.

To say the truth, if Alfred had been able to analyse himself while he was listening to that melody, certainly he would have said that —_to him_ —it seemed he didn't have a body anymore, Arthur's song enveloping the only remaining part of his being: the deepest and the most heartfelt one which someone could have called _soul_.

_"Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight. Greensleeves was my heart of joy and who but my lady Greensleeves?_" Arthur's voice didn't lose any kind of expressiveness in the highest notes of the song. This time what flowed in him with the melody was not a sequence of images, but one detailed memory from afar in his memory —and, of course, it was one of those which he guarded thoroughly.

It was one of his childhood summers. He had persisted a lot with Arthur to have him spend a day with him outdoors. So, they were lying down looking at the sky while Arthur was improvising a story with the things he saw in the clouds and Alfred was listening to him. He sometimes asked him where he had found a figure and Arthur raised his hand and pointed at a certain point in the sky, answering patiently and starting again to narrate. From his guardian's gestures and words, though, his mind played only that carefreeness up.

They remained silent for a while, having nothing to tell each other, looking at the sky. Then the boy turned, looking at the man whom he considered a friend, a brother, a father, and a confidant. He genuinely expressed his thoughts aloud. "Hey, Arthur, y'know? We'll be always together". Thereupon, the Brit looked at him quizzically. "I promise," Alfred said eventually.

"Al," the young man had just started warning him, but he hesitated immediately, as though he was considering which words he could use to explain himself. And then he started again. "Promises are hard to keep, especially those which don't concern you alone".

"Are you saying you wouldn't want to?" He cast a slightly hurt glance.

"No, I don't mean that-" but he wasn't able to finish his sentence because the American interrupted him with a little childish but still genuine tone. "Then I'll keep my word, _'cause I'm a Hero_".

At that instant, Arthur gave him one of his most sincere and affectionate smile a person could have ever seen on his face. He ruffled Alfred's hair with a serene expression. Though, the Englishman wasn't that kind of person who showed openly and broadly his feelings — perhaps because of his past and his lonely nature, perhaps because of his fear of being emotionally hurt. Indeed, he changed the subject in the blink of an eye.

"Oh," he paused, as though he was trying to remember and keep from using vulgar language, caring for Alfred's _gentleman_ upbringing ("Ah! _You dreamer_!" the American would have remarked, if the Brit had admitted it). "_Right_! I was about to forget," said, getting something from their things piled nearby. When Arthur gave him it, Alfred widened his eyes and made a little "o" with his mouth in amazement. He was happy.

When the Brit, slightly embarrassed, commented with an, "It's only a kite", the little boy simply chuckled in return.

During the whole afternoon, Alfred did nothing but running with his kite and chuckling. Arthur looked at him, a smile lightening his face whenever the American didn't look back. Not only did Alfred have a gut feeling it was so, but also he knew it for sure, since he surprised him a number of times definitely greater than the times in which he was caught staring at Arthur.

"_Your vows you've broken, like my heart_". This time the song brought back the promise — the only one Alfred had ever made to Arthur — and the war — the only thing which could be misunderstood, and which the Brit misunderstood, evidently. Yes, of course, he wanted his freedom. But independence and affection could coexist.

"_Oh, why did you so enrapture me?_" His mind recalled the Englishman's smile and carefreeness. Alfred didn't notice him blushing, but he did notice a warm feeling growing inside of him.

He would have liked to see that smile once more. But whom did he want to tease? He knew _damn_ well that, if it happened, he would have wanted to see it again, and yet again, and yet again, and so forth, _not caring for the facial paralysis which would have affected the Brit_. But he wouldn't have admitted it — _he wouldn't have admitted that seeing Arthur happy made him happy_.

"_Now I remain in a world apart, but my heart remains in captivity_". And it was true. His tone of voice, the position of Arthur's face, and consequently his gaze getting lost in London's milky sky told Alfred that. The Brit's arms as well. They were relaxed – as though, if wind rose, they wouldn't hold out against it — hanging at his sides.

Due to the Brit's posture, Alfred supposed that Arthur had the same absent-minded expression he usually made when lost in his thoughts or keeping on imagining after looking up from his book, only _a little bit_ sadder.

It was like Arthur was drifting — though, _locked_ in his world, voluntarily confined to his memory, in order to avoid the sorrow and the fear which misunderstanding, men and nations' old and dangerous friend, generated.

"_Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight. Greensleeves was my heart of joy and who but my lady Greensleeves?_" As the song, coming to its end, was slowing and winding down, Alfred's perception of his physical being was growing.

It was the first time he listened to Arthur singing — actually, he didn't even know he could do it. He didn't think the Englishman could explain his feelings so clearly. Maybe singing was his way of expressing himself. Maybe he had succeeded because he wasn't aware of his silent presence. Maybe _both_.

A discomfort started making its way through his being. A part of him felt that it wasn't fair towards Arthur and that that could harm what was left between them. This part wanted him to leave and to forget. The other one, though, told him that keeping this secret would be worse, that, if he left and the truth were discovered, things would start getting worse.

He was uncertain whether to listen to his fear or to his reason because — _damn it!_ — he was a human too, _holy mackerel_!

Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed Arthur rubbing his eyes with his coat sleeve and turning towards him.

_Too late_. Alfred saw him flinching and widening his eyes due to astonishment and the fear of being bared, of showing himself too weak in front of the American.

_It was his turn_. Before Arthur could respond, Alfred, helped by his newly-born courage, had started moving forward towards him. The Brit's expression changed: it seemed _angry_. Angry with him for catching him singing; angry with himself for letting himself be bared.

A few seconds later Alfred was put his arms around Arthur's waist and shoulders. The Brit flailed and tried to push him away. The American sensed it, but he didn't give up. He felt that, if they didn't explain themselves, they would only hurt each other.

_For once_ Alfred would have shown his true being, his seriousness he always hid and his feeling without any fear.

Finally, he understood it. They were alike: Alfred had been afraid of showing his emotions to him, thinking they would paint him as a weak, and so did Arthur.

After he stopped flailing, the Brit slowly started hugging him back, his head sunk in the hollow of Alfred's shoulder. He started crying silently and quivering. The American slowly began caressing his hair.

Eventually, Alfred understood that feelings wouldn't make him weaker in his eyes, and so did Arthur.

They wouldn't stop teasing each other, though, aware that the truth was in the depths of their beings.

Words could wait; for the time being, they could stay that way.

_Perhaps_, Alfred wouldn't do it only once.

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><p><strong>Please, let me know how it is, where and if I can improve my English. (So... R&amp;R?)<strong>


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